


Not a Socialite

by FrozenDonkeyWheel



Category: One Tree Hill, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Bar, Crossover, F/F, London, No Angst, No Sex, Original Character(s), Women Being Awesome, initial meeting, jackson makes an appearance, meet cute, mutual respect, prelude to later fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-15
Updated: 2014-08-15
Packaged: 2018-02-13 06:52:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2141280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrozenDonkeyWheel/pseuds/FrozenDonkeyWheel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>London is full of everything: sights, sounds, history, and people. But for Lydia Martin, on vacation in one of the world's greatest cities, it contains something even better. Someone, specifically. The someone she's been waiting a long time for, and she never even knew it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not a Socialite

**Author's Note:**

> This work is a direct continuation of sorts of my previous work, 'How Twitter Helped Win Christmas.' It is also simply a prelude to a longer, much more story-oriented fic that I intend to write at a later date featuring the characters introduced here. A prologue, if you will, and one I'd love for you to read and leave feedback on in whichever way you prefer. :)

“Have a drink with me, would ya?” Lydia Martin hears from the stool merely a meter away from her. She takes a sip of her red wine, the cold of its refrigeration flooding into her head as it passes her lips, before she looks over in the voice’s direction. 

Stale. Older. Unkempt facial hair. What appears to be a food stain lingering on the edge of his shirt collar. A button’s missing from said shirt, the loose thread dangling in the air exactly like the chances he has with her. Lydia hasn’t come to London to find the love of her life like she’s been ripped straight out of a made-for-TV rom-com, though if she had, it most certainly wouldn’t be with someone who looks like a homeless Adam Sandler. 

Lydia tries to be as polite as possible, shaking her head just slightly with the faintest hint of a smile on her face meant to repel him, not attract, but evidently it has the undesired effect of luring him in like a trout. “Come on, ya...you’re too purty...purty? Pretty. You’re too pretty...to be drinkin’ alone,” he breathes as he comes closer to her, every syllable bringing with it the stench of alcohol and desperation. 

He sits himself down in the stool directly next to her at the bar, spilling his drink just slightly as he clumsily resettles it against the surface. A drop of liquid splashes against her purse. Rolling her eyes, Lydia moves it to the other side of her drink, then sips her wine again, hoping that the guy understands the subtext in her every movement and, basically, goes the fuck away. 

He doesn’t.

“What’s wrong with ya? Figured you’d want the comp...company.”

Sometimes you’ve just gotta spell it out, make it clear, etc. Put them out of their misery. “Right now I have this wine for company.” She holds up the glass, swirls the liquid around inside. “You see, this tastes and looks and smells pretty fantastic.” She settles the glass back down on the counter, leans forward with her hands folded inside each other, then directs her voice directly to him. “You, on the other hand, are the opposite to this wine. So no, I don’t want company. Definitely not yours.” She tries to maintain eye contact with him for at least a second so he knows she’s serious, but his pupils are darting from one point to the next like a world-class ping pong match.

Huffing, the guy grabs his drink off the counter, almost falls off the stool as he stands up, and halfway back to his seat, he turns back to face her and flips the bird. 

Lydia concentrates on her drink again, distracted, and thoroughly uninterested in giving the guy any more of her attention.. She’s been in London for just three days, and in that time she’s visited three museums, been on the London Eye twice, spent at least a three-figure sum in a variety of different stores, taken a tourist cruise along the beautiful River Thames once, and had the misfortune to encounter not one but now two assholes of the male persuasion. 

The first, and biggest, jerk of the two was Jackson, who, the Christmas before, sent her the tickets which she used to get to London. He said he wanted to talk to her about their ‘relationship,’ which, fine, but Lydia hadn’t been under the impression they even had one in the first place. Constant jibes, let-downs, and insults never did constitute a relationship, and though they had parted on amicable terms once Jackson suddenly decided to move to London for reasons, she’d secretly hoped he would have a truly miserable experience from start to finish--the karmic punishment he deserved. 

Turns out, though, that he’s had a pretty great time in London. He’s just finished university and has secured an internship at a photography firm. He’s the very definition of someone moving up in their life. When he told her that, Lydia couldn’t help but feel annoyance and bitterness behind the congratulations she threw his way. But when he told her he wanted _her_ , and better yet wanted her to say sayonara to her family and friends and everything back in Beacon Hills to move to London and be with him, she made no effort at all to disguise her anger. 

“Let me just make sure I’ve got this right: you want me to come here to live with you? Drop everything I have back in Beacon Hills, for...you?” she’d asked him, not at all concerned over whether she was appearing abrasive or not. It was ludicrous, after all. 

“You make it sound unreasonable,” Jackson replied, the years of being in another country clearly not doing much to wipe away his seemingly automatic smug tone. 

Lydia bit her lip for a second, not wanting to unleash a verbal tsunami of every single expletive that exists in the English language. “I don’t think you understand how ridiculous you are,” she said to him, the polite version of “fuck you, you asshole piece of shit motherfucker.”

Jackson’s face displayed an expression of pure confusion, like she’d just started speaking gibberish to his face. “Why the fuck would you wanna stay in Beacon Hills? You’re only gonna end up dead.”

Lydia looked for something on his head, which he evidently noticed. “What are you looking for?”

“Oh, just, you know, a third eye or something. Seems you’ve gained the ability of clairvoyance since you’ve been in London.”

Jackson rolled his eyes. “Whatever. But you know I’m right.”

“It could be sitting on top of a damn Hellmouth and it would still be preferable to here.”

Jackson didn’t reply. He seemed like he wanted to, like he was rummaging through every vestige of his brain for a suitable response, but none came. Instead, he sat down in an office chair, crossed his legs like an asshole, and stared at her, smiling, before saying “I’ve missed this” to her.

Lydia sat down on the edge of the bed. “Missed what?”

“This. Being challenged by someone again. It never happens. It’s...stimulating.” He uncrossed his legs then leaned forward, his elbows attached to each side of the chair.

“Well there’s your problem, Jackson, because you don’t stimulate me,” she said slowly, as if the infinitesimal increase in break between each word made the point go across more forcefully. “It’s kinda sad that you think you do, to be honest.”

He leaned back again, his brow raised. “Do you want me to say sorry? Is that what you want? Do you want me to apologise for every single thing I did, ‘cause we’d be here for a while, but I’ll do it.” Lydia could fault Jackson for many, many things, and she intended to do just that, but she couldn’t deny that he had a certain magnetic charm. The way his eyes displayed sincerity like the world’s most accomplished liar; the way his cheekbones had a habit of dancing to the beats of the sentences passing between this teeth, distracting you just enough so that you’ll think you heard something else entirely; the way he just looked at you, with his seductive gaze pulling you closer and closer until you were trapped. It had always been clear to Lydia exactly how Jackson had been such a popularity magnate at High School, but it had also allowed her to concoct an immunisation to his virus.

She smiled at him, mirroring his own brand of facial manipulation. “That would be great if I’d actually spent the last few years missing you, wanting you to apologise. Or actually just thinking about you at all.” She shrugged, still smiling. “I haven’t.”

Jackson may have been so sure that he would get what he wanted, because usually that was commonplace for him, but Lydia could see the twinkle of defeat in his eyes. He wasn’t desperate, she already knew that, but she knew he was disappointed. Not because she had declined him, but because she had _refused_ him.

“So why did you come here, then? Why did you fly all the way over here just to tell me something you could’ve just told me over the phone?” he asked her, not angrily but dryly, any pretence of regret unsurprisingly absent. 

“If I’d told you over the phone then I wouldn’t have gotten to stay in London for a week, would I?” She hadn’t intended for it to sound as mocking, as though she had deliberately mislead him into believing there was a chance she would reunite with him if only he just paid for her to take a vacation. She hadn’t asked for any of it; she hadn’t even spoken to him since he left Beacon Hills, so his decision to accommodate her trip to London had been one of his making. She’d only accepted the offer. And she most certainly never promised him anything. 

When he just stared at her blankly, and she stared back at him, the silence doing its own little dance in the air between them, she finally decided to just let down the inflated balloon of his ego. “Look, I don’t need you. I don’t want you. You or any other guy. I’m discovering who _I_ am as a person, not who I am when I’m with you or anyone else. I’m sorry--” (she wasn’t) “--but you slow me down.”

Jackson didn’t say anything for a few more moments, and at one point Lydia thought she caught a glimpse of a grin forming at the edge of his lips, but then he finally responded. “You’ve changed.”

“Have I? Or maybe you just never noticed.”

The rest of their conversation had been fairly monotone. Free from the burden of having to discuss a relationship that had never existed in the first place, it became easier to just talk. They discussed their respective lives, their aspirations, all the guys back in Beacon Hills, the typical catch-up stuff. It hadn’t been as nauseating to talk with Jackson as she’d expected. Sure, awkwardness hid behind every word, but it was a lot less tiring than having to refuse his previous requests. It was like catching up with a friend you never particularly liked but tolerated anyway. The kind you bumped into at the grocery store after not seeing them for a few years. Both wanted to get away as quickly as possible but neither were willing to be the first one to initiate the movement. 

Eventually Lydia became that person, as she invented a planned trip to see “Julia,” and she’d gone straight to the first bar she’d seen on her way back to the hotel, which is where she’s still sitting, having just finished her glass of wine, thanking a selection of deities that the homeless Adam Sandler has moved away. But she’s not having commiseration drinks like some tragic female character who’s just lost the love of her life and has chosen to replace them with wine. No, she’s celebrating, because she’s just snipped the rope holding a dead weight that had been dangling from her ankle. And the sudden weightlessness feels _great_. 

You know what else feels great, too? The swimminess in her head, brought on quite suddenly by the second glass of wine she’s downed in the last half hour. She’s not drunk enough to be unable to speak properly or function, but she’s certainly a little tipsy. Perfect. And the bartenders in this place didn’t even card her when she first ordered. _Do they think I’m older? Is that a bad thing? Am I drunk enough? No, definitely not. More please._

Lydia places her empty glass back on the counter, flips her hair back behind her ears, and beckons the bartender over to request her third offering. She still has three days remaining in London; she can afford the luxury of waking up in her hotel room the next morning feeling like death incarnate. 

As she watches the bartender reach his little drinks platform, refill her glass, then bring it back over to her with a napkin underneath the glass for spillage, she thinks back over the last four days. Turns out that London’s pretty damn great. For one thing, there are stores _everywhere_. For another, the architecture is amazing, and yeah, Lydia realizes there are far more interesting things to take notice of than the damn brickwork of a building, but she can’t help but appreciate the beauty of something that extends far beneath the external surface. Like when people admire old, ancient trees; they’re not actually admiring the tree itself, but its age, and specifically how age has made it look prettier--the reverse of aging, in a way. 

Oh, and the third thing? Everyone’s so laid back. Back in Beacon Hills, everyone always seems so paranoid and anxious, which is understandable when you think about it, because at any moment something foul and hellish can come charging around the corner to eviscerate you. And as soon as darkness hits, you’re almost guaranteed to be attacked or murdered by unseen forces were you brave enough to even step foot outside of your house in the first place. But apparently London doesn’t suffer from the same affliction. 

As Lydia nears the halfway point in her third glass of wine-- _shit, I should slow down before I end up like that creature over there_ \--and contemplates ordering a fourth and possibly looking pretty damn pathetic drinking on her own at eight o’clock in the evening, she hears a series of voices emanating from the corner of the room, from the confines of a semicircled couch nestled within a cubicle. Three people are seated there: a guy, who would be pretty indescript if not for his genuinely fantastic slightly-curled-yet-still-straight hair, and what looks like a violin case resting beside his feet; a black woman laughing and waving her arms around as she attempts to explain something she clearly isn’t having much luck describing; and then her, the one who catches Lydia’s eye immediately. Similarly aged, her brown hair looks immaculately well kept and perfectly accentuates the features of her face that seem without a single flaw or imperfection noticeable to the eye. She’s wearing a _flawless_ red dress that ends just above her knees and is tied around the waist with a black fabric belt, with a giant metallic loop in the middle holding the two ends together. Her voice is instantly mesmerizing, with its effortless sultry and smoky tone that feels like velvet and silk flowing through your eardrums even from across the room. And her smile is extraordinary, as though it could illuminate the darkest of rooms and blind every crevice with light. 

Lydia continues looking over in their direction, ignoring her drink and everything else in the room, focusing singularly on their presence. Something seems fascinating to her. Or, more specifically, someone. There’s something about the unfamiliar woman, with her looks and her presence and the way she brightens the gloominess of the bar, not with her vibrant dress but with her just being there. Something stirs inside Lydia’s body. Not jealousy, because Lydia doesn’t _do_ jealous, but something else entirely. It’s weird, and she’s probably had more to drink than she should have had, she thinks, but she feels a sort of...admiration. Respect. Maybe even more, but the alcohol makes it hard to determine what.

Hell, she is in awe of her. 

Lydia knows she’s been staring for longer than what would be considered normal, so when the woman looks over at her and catches her eye, Lydia feels a redness sweep into her face and she looks away suddenly and quickly, hoping (and possibly praying) that she didn’t notice and thinks she’s some kind of Annie Wilkes in the making. 

Lydia lets at least a minute pass before she tilts her head just enough so that she can cast her eyes all the way to the right in order to look at her again without it being as obvious. The woman’s laughing with the guy she’s sat with, slapping him in the shoulder, trying to ruffle his hair, before she scoops her drink off the table and stares right at Lydia while she takes an elongated sip. 

And then, like an idiot with absolutely no social skills whatsoever, like she’s suddenly become Stiles, Lydia accidentally knocks her drink over and watches as its contents flood over the surface of the bar. The bartender notices the disaster, tuts, then goes away, presumably to find a cloth. Lydia feels a presence sitting beside her and looks over to see the woman occupying the stool. 

From a distance she’s pretty damn noticeable, Lydia thinks, but up close she’s nothing short of incredible. 

“Looks like you need another,” the woman says, punching Lydia out of her alcohol-influenced stupor. When Lydia doesn’t appear to understand what she’s talking about, the woman faintly nods her head in the direction of the spilled drink. 

“Oh. Right.” Lydia sits upright when the bartender re-emerges to clean up her mess. Thirty seconds later, when he’s gone, she finally responds, though forcing the words out of her mouth seems to require extra effort. “It is quite possible that I have had way more to drink than I intended.”

“Bad night?”

“The opposite.” Lydia can’t help but say it with a smile that makes her feel warm inside, a smile so evidently noticeable that the woman spots it and reciprocates with one of her own. 

“Well in that case, you have definitely not drunk enough.” She beckons the bartender over, who, unsurprisingly, looks miffed after the clean-up he had to endure amidst a sudden uptick in the bar’s population. 

“Yeah?” he asks a little sharply. His accent is thick, a stark contrast to the heavy Americanised tone to both of their voices. And it’s only then that Lydia actually realizes that the woman sitting beside her is also American. She’s so enamoured that she didn’t even notice. 

“I’d like a...a...I don’t know, do you remember what my friend over there ordered?” She points back towards the table she’s come from, at the friend with the hair and the violin case. 

The bartender squints over at where she’s pointing then seems to remember. “Lager?”

“Yeah, that’s it. I want one of those, two of those green cocktail things over there, and a--” She looks in Lydia’s direction, her brown eyes connecting with Lydia’s. “Was it a red wine?” 

“Yeah.”

She looks back at the bartender. “A red wine. I want those, please.” She rummages around in her bag and produces a black leather purse, red at the seams and glistening in the light above their heads. She throws two notes down on the counter, says “keep the change” before he can say anything in response, then when their drinks are poured and handed over to them on a tray, she hands Lydia her drink and starts moving back to her table. 

Lydia doesn’t move, unsure whether or not she’s actually been invited and not wishing to look like an idiot for the second time that evening. 

The woman looks over her shoulder when she realizes she isn’t being followed, then turns around. “You coming or not? I need another American to balance the scales with these two natives over here.” A pause. “Plus you may look a little pathetic drinking by yourself.”

It’s true, Lydia thinks. There’s something inherently pathetic and loser-like to sitting at a bar by yourself and downing drink after drink without anyone there to join you. And besides, it’s not like she’s being invited to join some weird sex orgy. They all look like regular, normal people, certainly not the kind to be interested in having a foursome with someone whose name they don’t even know.

So Lydia accepts the invitation and vacates her position at the bar, taking herself and her drink over to the table she had been previously looking in on like a puppy watching a family from outside the window. She nestles herself in at the end of the couch, beside the black woman whose perfume, up close, smells like an exotic combination of several types of flower mixed with what can only be described as a fruit of some kind. Maybe strawberries. Nevertheless, it’s fantastic. 

Suddenly everything feels awkward. Lydia’s sat with people she doesn’t know, who don’t know her, whose names she doesn’t know, who don’t know her name, and she doesn’t know what to say or what to do beyond fidgeting in place and waiting for someone else to break the silence. 

“So, Brooke, who’ve you picked up this time?” the guy says, his accent not as strong as the bartender’s but definitely influenced by both sides of the Atlantic. 

Brooke. Now Lydia has a name to attach to the face. It’s like she’s a detective constructing a dossier of information on a person of interest, one piece at a time. 

And there’s something else about it, too. Something weirdly familiar. Not in a deja vu sort of way but in a ‘where have I heard that name before?’ way. 

“This is...I don’t even know. What's your name?” Surname-less Brooke asks Lydia. 

“Lydia.”

“Cute name, _Lydia_. Well, I’m Brooke, obviously.” A weird, almost inappropriate pause. “This is Adam. You will note that there is nothing at all unique about him other than the fact his hair looks like it has been vacuumed into position.” The woman beside Lydia laughs, as does the object of the ridicule. “And this is Vitra, a girl who, I promise you, is a much better person than you or I.”

The girl--Vitra--sitting next to Lydia laughs then waves her hand in front of her in a dismissive manner. “Oh please,” she says, a little hoarsely until she clears her throat. Every movement Vitra’s body makes sends miniature, invisible clouds of scent puffing up into Lydia’s appreciative nostrils.

Adam interrupts before Lydia has a chance to say anything, which, because she can’t help it, would’ve been to ask Brooke where she knows her from. The familiarity is increasing by the second, and Lydia needs to know why, if only to satisfy her burning curiosity. 

“Do we have surnames here or is this a first-names-only kind of deal like we’re all spies or something?” Adam asks, his brow raising to its highest position by the end of his sentence. “Mine’s Blackmoon, by the way,” he answers mockingly when nobody says anything in response.

“Your surname?” Lydia asks. 

“Yeah don’t worry, most people have that reaction. His parents were weird,” Vitra says. She extends her hand to Lydia, who accepts, and shakes. “Mine’s Yale. You know, after the school.”

“Martin,” Lydia offers while still shaking hands with Vitra, whose skin feels hot to the touch, all flames and fire. She’s almost surprised wisps of steam aren’t floating up from her skin’s surface. 

“Davis,” Brooke finishes, doing a mock bow with her head in each of their directions. 

_Brooke Davis_. Now Lydia’s one hundred percent certain that she’s heard the name before in some capacity. It feels like when you’re watching a movie and you know you recognise someone in it, but your mind just refuses to let the knowledge loose from behind a steel door. Maybe she’s famous, Lydia ponders. Obviously not famous enough to be able to sit in a bar with nobody coming up to the table to ask for autographs or photos, but famous enough to have an instantly recognisable name. 

Would it be rude to take her phone out and Google her name, Lydia asks herself. It probably would. Though she could pretend she’s just texting someone…

“You wanna Google me, don’t you?” Lydia looks up at the source of the voice. Not that she has to because its intonation could only belong to one larynx. 

For a second Lydia considers the possibility that Brooke can read minds. It sounds absurd but when you’ve lived in Beacon Hills your whole life, and seen innumerable numbers of creatures and beasts, you start to see the possibility of supernatural shit wherever you go. But no, Brooke isn’t a mind reader. She’s probably just observing the ponderous look on Lydia’s face that she’s clearly not done a good enough job of disguising. 

“I...no. Why would I want to do that?” Lydia stammers, putting the hand she started moving towards the phone in her bag firmly back on the table, its intentions discovered. She grabs her drink and sips from it, hoping she doesn’t look too ridiculous. 

Adam laughs. “She totally wants to Google you.”

“I do not!”

Vitra looks at her for a moment, studiously, then back at Adam, nodding. “I agree, she’s definitely thinking about it.”

“Okay, so I was...considering it,” Lydia concedes, a smile on her face. “I know your name from somewhere, I just can’t pinpoint where.”

Brooke laughs, then Adam speaks in a tone that makes him sound like a radio announcer. “Don’t you recognise the fabulous, beautiful, fashion extraordinaire Brooke Davis? Founder of Clothes Over Bro’s, the fashion label that’s been dressing impressionable young women since 2005? Infamous socialite--” 

Brooke grabs her purse and slams it against Adam’s shoulder. “I’m not a socialite, you asshole!”

Adam, laughing, continues. “Okay, not a socialite, but definitely featuring similar qualities.” He dodges another blow from Brooke’s purse, then faces Lydia directly, his hands folded into each other on the table like a news anchor, his face playfully serious. “Tell me, Ms. Lydia Martin, do you recognise this person?”

The answer? Yeah, Lydia does. It was the mention of Clothes Over Bro’s that triggered her subconscious to work properly. Lydia’s been purchasing clothes from the label for years. She’s always found the often peculiar yet intrinsically fascinating design choices to be, well, fascinating. Her prom dress was even a Clothes Over Bro’s purchase from their special prom season collection, a stunning white knee-length, tight-fitting creation with a single red stripe going from neck to knee. It had cost her a small fortune, but it had elevated her above and beyond anyone else at the party. 

Lydia had been so enamoured with Clothes Over Bro’s that, a few years ago, she read a magazine that the label, with a whole subsection of writers and publishers and editors at its disposal, churned out every month. Now, granted, the magazine was consistently terrible and Lydia had always wondered just why they’d even bothered to waste money on it, but this particular issue featured an interview with the company’s founder and current lead fashion designer, Brooke Davis. The pictures that accompanied the interview were, to put it simply, exquisite, and Lydia read the interview over and over again until the magazine she had was lost. Brooke’s life, all that she’d experienced, all the dreams she’d had and fought to achieve despite everyone undervaluing her worth to society, had filled Lydia with the same feelings she’d felt when she’d seen Brooke earlier that evening, when she’d been too hindered by the wine swimming around in her head to even recognise the woman Lydia had spent a small portion of her teenage years admiring. 

And there she is, sitting in front of her, and Lydia really doesn’t want to be an embarrassment by slipping into manic fan mode, but she can’t help feeling a little giddy. “Okay, I know who you are now. I’m--”

“If you say you’re _such a big fan_ I won’t be held responsible for pouring this drink over you,” Brooke interrupts, a smile on her face that’s simultaneously discouraging and enticing. 

“It’s true,” Vitra says, leaning in towards Lydia so she can hear her voice more clearly. “Adam almost said it when he first met her. Not because he actually was a fan, you know, he was just being a jerk.” She giggles a little as she recites the moment in her head. “She actually had the drink hovering over his head before he shut up.”

“Okay, gotcha. Not a big fan. At all. In fact I hate you.” Lydia smiles as she says it, just in case they misread her intentions. That would be awkward. Thankfully it has the desired effect.

Lydia doesn’t know any of these people in any considerable depth, not even Brooke, despite being _such a big fan_ , but she’s taken aback by how laid back they all are with each other. There doesn’t seem to be any discernible hostility lingering in the background, any malice of any kind, just...friendship. It feels new to her, in a way, which she realizes devalues her own friendships to a degree, but nevertheless, it’s true. 

“So, Lydia, you’re clearly not a native, so what brings you to London?” Vitra asks, finishing the last drop of the almost luminescent green cocktail. 

“Just visiting. Taking a vacation, I guess.” Oh yeah, and that other thing… “Had some business to...take care of.”

“That sounds ominous,” Adam says. 

“It’s really not. I just had to, I don’t know, put someone out of their misery.” That’s the polite version, Lydia thinks. The straight-to-the-point alternative, free of the bullshit. 

Adam raises his drink. Brooke and Lydia follow his lead, while Vitra is forced to hold up her empty glass. “Well, I say we drink to this guy--or girl--because clearly they’ve had a pretty shitty day, losing out on you.” They all clink their glasses together and drink, and Lydia feels how strange this is, how she’s drinking and clinking glasses with people she doesn’t even know. 

“What about you?” Lydia asks, putting her glass down on the table, empty, feeling her vision beginning to swirl ever so slightly. That’s definitely enough. 

“Group vacation,” Brooke answers. “I needed a break, these guys _definitely_ needed a break, so here we are. Of course, had we known it would be monsoon season here, we would’ve turned the page in the travel brochure.”

They all laugh in response. It’s true: London’s a great place, full of beautiful sights and attractions, definitely one of the finest cities and locations in the world, but holy shit it rains _all the time_. Lydia thought that it couldn’t possibly be as bad as it’s always portrayed in the movies, that that was just stereotyping, but nope, they had it right all along. 

“So what do you do?” Lydia questions. She directs her voice at Brooke. “Obviously I know what you do, but what about the sidekicks?”

“Vitra and I are in a band!” Adam exclaims, proudly, like he’d been bursting at the seams to reveal that nugget of information ever since Lydia sat down at the table. “You might’ve noticed Liza here.” He motions towards the violin case resting at his feet. Lydia looks at it again, its brown leather surface looking expensive and classy. “Vit here provides the voice, I provide the music.” He starts to inexplicably unbutton his red-and-white plaid shirt. “Other than that, I study music--” he finishes unbuttoning his shirt and pulls it open, revealing a huge image of Elsa and her sister Anna, of _Frozen_ fame, hugging each other “--and these two flawless bitches are my everything!”

Lydia laughs. She doesn’t even try to disguise it. Adam’s so peculiar, so ostensibly uninterested in what people may think of him, that it both amuses and fascinates her. Brooke chooses her friends well, she thinks.

“You’re such a dork,” Vitra says, throwing a crisp at Adam’s newly revealed t-shirt. 

“What about you?” Lydia asks, tapping her hand against Vitra’s so she knows the question’s directed at her. As like earlier, it feels remarkably hot, almost feverish. 

Right then it’s as though a heavy cloud floating above them has just fallen down and smothered them all in a weird awkwardness. If this were a scene from a movie, the pianist playing to the crowd would’ve slammed the wrong key and ceased his performance, causing everyone to look in their direction. 

Adam doesn’t say anything; instead he buttons his shirt back up silently, not looking up at the table. Brooke looks at Vitra, then she, too, touches her hand, but in an almost reassuring way.

Vitra looks at Lydia, her face sad and content at the same time, like she’s had to do this before. “Well, I sing, like Adam said, I’m freakin’ great at ping-pong--ask Brooke; I slammed her ass the last time we played, and she’s good--and I’m pretty damn great at having a tumour lodged in my throat.”

 _What?_ Lydia tries to comprehend what she just heard, because she sure as hell was not expecting that. “What?” she asks out loud this time, just in case they’re pranking her, which she gets the feeling they wouldn’t be averse to doing. 

“Stage three. Inoperable. It’s gonna mute me and then it’s gonna kill me.” 

What do you even say when you’re in this sort of situation? Lydia doesn’t know, so she simply says the one thing she knows for sure is appropriate: “Shit, I’m sorry.”

Vitra shrugs. “Thanks. I’ve still got another year at least, so that’s something.” Optimism. Lydia’s glad she at least has that. “Besides, it could be worse--I could be blind like this jerk over here.” She tilts her head in Adam’s direction. 

“Hang on, what, you’re _blind_?” Lydia asks Adam, literally stunned that, if true, she never picked up on it at first glance. 

“Only in my left eye.” Lydia looks at the indicated eye and, yep, it’s slightly glazed over and visibly damaged. “That’s why we’re called Half-Seeing, ‘cause, you know, I can only half-see and Vit here is only half-seeing her life. Get it? Get it?” He looks at Vitra. “I think she gets it.”

Silence ensues. The terribly awkward kind when nobody can find the right words to say next because no words in any language seem neither appropriate nor worthy. Everyone just drinks, or in Vitra’s case, fiddles with their fingers. Until Brooke intervenes, that is. “Didn’t I tell you these guys needed a break?” she says, a reassuring smile accompanying her words. Everyone just seems grateful for the engulfing silence to be gone. 

It’s only a temporary solution, though; the silence returns with a vengeance. Nobody says anything. The sound of everyone around them permeates the air, filling Lydia’s ears with a song whose bassy, tuneful beats she knows she recognises but can’t place. Maybe it’s a P!nk song. People are talking all around them, about work, school, partners, planned trips, “that guy at work who smells fuckin’ weird, man.” And then, finally, a voice from their own table once again. 

“Come on, why the silence? In case you hadn’t heard I’m trying to avoid that for as long as I can,” Vitra says, slapping her hands against the edge of the table, presumably to gather everyone’s attention. 

Brooke’s face lights up like she’s just had an idea, as though a cartoon lightbulb inside a sketched speech bubble has just materialised above her head. “You guys should perform! Right now!”

Both halves of Half-Seeing do not look enthusiastic. “This is hardly our target crowd,” Adam says, deflated. “Plus half these guys don’t look like they’d recognise a violin from a fucking harmonica.”

“Yeah, Brooke, I’m not sure it’s a good idea.” Lydia feels Vitra shift uncomfortably in the seat next to her. 

Brooke directs her attention towards Lydia. “You see what I’ve gotta deal with here?” She tuts, then shakes her head. Then back to the other guys. “Look, Lydia here hasn’t heard your talent yet, for a start, and yeah, these guys are pretty wasted, but that’s perfect--drunk people give money. Lots of money.”

Adam’s face displays recognition, understanding, acceptance. “True,” he acquiesces. He looks up at Vitra. “What do you think? We don’t have to if you don’t feel up to it.”

Vitra shuffles a little more before responding. “Sure, whatever, I’m good.”

Both of them stand up from the table, which is so small and crowded that Lydia has to move out of the cubicle in order for Vitra to be able to slink past her and into the open space in the middle of the bar. Lydia resettles back onto the couch and feels Brooke shifting closer to her until their thighs are practically touching, ‘til their elbows bump into one another like two magnets being pulled together by an invisible force. It doesn’t feel at all uncomfortable; in fact it’s electrifying.

Brooke leans in closer to Lydia’s ear while they watch Adam and Vitra setting up in the middle of the room, eyes from every corner of the bar suddenly turning and catching their light. “So what do you think?”

The sound of her voice so close to her almost makes Lydia jump. Brooke’s not even talking, she’s just whispering, but it feels deafening, the way rain starts with a few drops then becomes a storm. “About what?” Lydia asks, struggling not to break into a stammer. 

“About me. Do I live up to my reputation?” The way she says it doesn’t sound regular to Lydia--it feels playful, inviting. 

Lydia watches Adam and Vitra for a second, and then when Adam calls out into the crowd and announces they’re going to “put on a little number,” then shrug-questions the bartender when he fails to silence the music playing through the speakers, Lydia responds with a smile settling at the corner of her mouth, which she knows is being detected. “I didn’t think you were a narcissist.”

Brooke laughs just as Adam begins dragging the wooden stylus across the violin’s strings, creating a slow and long drag of music that’s strong enough to pierce through your skin. He starts off slow, methodical, haunting, before he increases tempo. Then Vitra includes herself in the performance and begins singing the opening lines to “Let It Go.” Both Lydia and Brooke laugh at the choice of song. 

The song continues playing, a manipulated, mixed-tempo rendition with breaks between the choruses for Adam to demonstrate a flurry of sounds, the creation of which causes him to flail in place like a true professional. Then Brooke speaks. “Do you want to know my impressions of you?”

 _Do I want to know?_ Lydia thinks. Typically Lydia is unfazed by people’s general impressions of her, but this time it feels different. It’s important to her that Brooke sees her positively. _But why?_ “Go ahead.”

The song is far from over despite them having played for several minutes, but they’re firmly into it. Their combined passion and skill is overwhelming. No wonder the violin case Adam left open on the ground for donations is being rapidly filled with coins and even a few notes. 

Brooke leans in towards Lydia’s ear once again, close enough that her lips are practically nuzzling on her lobe. “I think you’re tired.”

 _Tired? Huh?_ Lydia was expecting many things, positive and negative, but that wasn’t one of them. “Tired?”

“Of being undervalued.”

Lydia looks away from the performance and straight into Brooke’s eyes, which are right there, not even ten inches away from her face, slowly blinking as though deliberately. Lydia feels something, then. In her abdomen. Just for a second but long enough to be noticeable. A lone butterfly fluttering.

Lydia pulls away just slightly, startled, increasing the distance between their faces. Brooke doesn’t look offended, though, thankfully. The divide lets Lydia tune back into her surroundings, even though she hadn’t realised it’d all become a backdrop of white crackling snow. The performance is finished; Adam’s scooping the collected money out of his case in between shaking the hands of adoring fans, while Vitra’s at the bar being handed a drink that would appear to be of no cost to her. And Brooke’s still sitting there, looking at Lydia, half a grin sketched across her red, pulsating-- _are they pulsating or am I drunk?_ \--lips. 

Adam and Vitra both return to the table but Brooke stands up to join them, grabbing a black jacket from the seat she was occupying and wrapping it around her frame. 

Lydia looks up at them all, feeling back inside her body, finally. “Are...are you leaving?” she asks incredulously 

“Are we?” Adam mirrors, looking at Brooke, who’s now firmly tucked inside her outdoor wear. 

“We’ve got a flight to catch tomorrow,” she answers. “Remember?”

“Shit. Yeah.” Adam grabs his jacket, while Lydia hands Vitra hers, which she takes with a hoarse “thanks.”

The three of them are suited and ready for re-entry back into the cold, harsh rain and wind known as the London climate when Brooke pulls a slip of white card out of her pocket. She pulls a pen out of another pocket, and while she’s writing something down she asks: “Where do you live, Lydia?”

“A place called Beacon Hills?” Lydia always appends a question mark to the end of that exact sentence because she’s quite convinced that absolutely nobody on Earth knows of the place, like it exists on the outside of reality, which really wouldn’t be far from the truth. 

“I know it.” She finishes writing on the card then slides it from her end of the table to Lydia’s. She glances down and sees two numbers, an email address, Facebook details, address. Every conceivable way to contact her, it seems. 

“Whatever you do, Lydia,” Brooke says, grinning, stepping backwards towards the door while the other two wave goodbye and head straight for it, “don’t be a stranger.”

As the three of them are about to reach the door, Lydia slips the card--now the most precious thing she owns--into her purse and calls out to them. “Wanna know what I think of you?”

“Sure,” Brooke responds, turning back to face her with the door pulled open, rain slamming against the surface behind her. 

“I think you could be worse...for a socialite.”

Brooke lets out a huge laugh, then she stares in Lydia’s direction for a moment. Her eyes slip to the ground for a nanosecond, and she disappears into the black of night. But Lydia, sat alone at the table, feels the butterfly resurrecting within her.

**Author's Note:**

> If you wanna contact me or whatever, my Twitter is @cat_in_a_shoe.


End file.
